


like molten gold

by bluebacchus



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (Ceeninja's BoO), First Time, Happy Irvday!, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, PWP, Sexual awakening due to religious imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: It was the most exquisite torture to sit in front of Saint Sebastian, studying each line of his lithe form and each droplet of blood that dripped from the wounds of his martyrdom, sketchbook in his lap, open to a still-blank page. Instead of drawing, John would think. And lately, his thoughts have strayed from the sharp hips of the saint in front of him to the blond-haired bartender he had been seeing.Set in Ceeninja's Bowl of Oranges Reincarnation AUAlso a fill for theterrorbingo: Guilt
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Bowl of Oranges Cinematic Universe





	like molten gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ceeninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceeninja/gifts).



> There are still 20 minutes left of Irving's birthday in my timezone, so please accept my PWP. This is also (finally) my first bingo fill for "Guilt". 
> 
> This is set in Ceeninja's Bowl of Oranges universe where the FE lads have been reincarnated in modern society. Allusions to reincarnation are pretty minor, so if you haven't read BoO you should be alright.
> 
> Title is sorta inspired by Derek Jarman's Sebastiane, which I unashamedly own on Blu-ray.

The blood sat, stark and red against the pale skin of the statue, trapped in its fruitless descent downward. Some wounds bled heavier than others; the arrow that pierced Saint Sebastian’s side was buried in a brightly painted bloody wound; the arrow embedded in his hip gave leave to a thin trickle of crimson that led down to the top of the thin cloth that covered his groin. It was here when John Irving found his eyes drawn. The cloth, carved of the same stone as the Saint, looked impossibly soft. John wanted to reach out and touch it, to caress the wrinkles and folds of it, to place his hand over the undeniable swell of flesh that would lie under the cloth if it were a real man in front of him and not one carved of marble and stone.

Perhaps it was because he was sat in front of the statue that John let himself stare. He could tell himself that it was an appreciation of the artistry rather than an appreciation of the male form. He felt safe, despite feeling the acute guilt that could only come from thinking impure thoughts about religious figures. It was a feeling he’d been experiencing his entire life; first with the Sexy Jesus Bible he received for his Confirmation and later when he began to visit museums, seeking out the portraits of full-lipped and bare-chested saints painted with careful, delicate brushstrokes. This later obsession was one John could not curb.

It was the most exquisite torture to sit in front of Saint Sebastian, studying each line of his lithe form and each droplet of blood that dripped from the wounds of his martyrdom, sketchbook in his lap, open to a still-blank page. Instead of drawing, John would think. And lately, his thoughts have strayed from the sharp hips of the saint in front of him to the blond-haired bartender he had been seeing.

Dating was one thing; the idea of being _intimate_ (John couldn’t even think the word _sex_ without feeling his guilt triple) was another entirely. His mind wandered back to Tom, as it tended to do more and more lately. He wondered what Tom would look like, scantily clad in only a loincloth like Sebastian, swathes of skin on display for all to see but for only John to touch. He would like to touch, he decided. No, he would _love_ to.

Again and again, John told himself that the world had changed. He wasn’t wrong for wanting to act on his urges. It was natural. Like Edward and Thomas. Like Francis and James. They were his friends; men he respected and who had helped him through the difficult transition between waking up and coming to terms with his new life. It was easy to accept them and their relationships, but still…

“I thought I’d find you here,” Tom said from behind him, resting his chin on John’s shoulder. “That’s a nice drawing. I like how you captured the air.”

John looked down at the blank page of his sketchbook and then up at Tom. He was smiling, and the light from the afternoon sun cast a halo around his butterscotch hair. He reminded John of a sunflower.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“You always hide here,” Tom said. “Today I just…” he trailed off as he stepped over the bench to sit beside John. “I missed you.”

Tom reached over and rested his hand over John’s, still propped on his sketchbook. John could feel his body involuntarily tense up when their hands made contact. He felt the loss like one of Saint Sebastian’s arrows when Tom removed his hands, apology on his lips.

John shook his head in self-disgust. He finally had someone who cared for him- someone who _aroused him_ , even- and he couldn’t even let himself be touched. He tried; by himself, at night, alone. He touched himself under the covers or in the shower, wondering what it would be like if it were someone else touching him- if it was _Tom_ touching him. The shame and disgust at his own neediness diluted any sense of pleasure he received, but he still _wanted_.

“Is it like ripping off a band-aid?” John asked suddenly.

Tom frowned at him. “Huh?”

“Sex. Will it help if I- if we- don’t take it slow? If we did… _it_? All the way?”

Tom’s eyes went wide. “I don’t want to do that to you, John. We should take it slow and make sure we’re both comfortable with everything and-“

John stared into the marble eyes of Saint Sebastian. He let his line of sight jump from wound to wound until his eyes returned to rest on the loincloth-covered bulge. The thoughts, the wanting, and the desire all hit him at once, and John found himself thankful for the sketchbook that covered the hardening of his prick in his trousers.

“Tom,” John whispered, voice low with desperation. Tom stopped babbling, “Please,” John whispered, voice breaking before he leaned in and kissed him.

* * *

They made it back to Tom’s flat without incident. Tom held John’s trembling hand in his as they sat side by side on the train, thigh pressed against thigh. John could feel his skin prickle where it pressed against his trousers which pressed against Tom’s jeans which pressed against Tom’s skin. His skin felt electric.

Now that he had made up his mind, John knew he needed to touch; he needed to _be_ touched. Before he could think about what he was doing, he leaned over and kissed Tom on the cheek. An old lady sitting across from them coughed. John couldn’t find it within himself to mind. The softness of Tom’s cheek against his lips was barely enough to quell the burning within him, and he began counting the stops.

With three stops left, Tom began tracing circles on the back of John’s hand.

Two stops left: John pushed his leg closer to Tom’s so that every jolt of the train carriage would let their thighs rub against one another.

With one stop left, John stood up, pulling Tom to his feet and letting Tom place a hand on his chest to keep himself steady.

At Tom’s stop, they minded the gap and took off up the stairs at a pace that mimicked a schoolboy, running to get home in time for his favourite television programme.

“We should slow down,” John panted once they were outside and speed-walking through the narrow back lanes that led to Tom’s flat.

“Why?”

“We- we’re acting like… sexually frustrated teenagers!”

Tom stopped and whipped around, pressing John against one of the brick walls that bracketed them.

“Aren’t we?” Tom asked. His hands, still on John’s shoulders, pressed him further into the wall as he kissed him. He had just licked at the corner of John’s mouth before pulling back and holding him at arm’s length.

“Unless you don’t want to? It’s fine if you don’t, I just-“

“I do,” John said quickly. He did. He _really, really_ did. “I’m just,” he lowered his voice, as if he were to divulge a great secret, “I’m nervous. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” Tom said. He smiled and led John further down the alley towards his flat.

* * *

“Have you done this before?” is the first thing John asks when Tom pushes him through the door.

“Once or twice,” is all Tom says before his hands are in John’s hair and he’s kissing him again. John kisses back; making out on the couch is as far as they’ve gone in their time together and it’s given John ample time to practice. Even being wrapped in the other’s arms, foreheads pressed together between kisses, was at one point overwhelming for him. Now, it’s become pleasurable, if not entirely comfortable. John is still the one to pull away first, though it’s less because of the flood of feeling and more to take a moment to look Tom in the eye and remember that _he’s kissing Tom Hartnell_ like he’s wanted to since 1847 and he remembers he really has to thank God later that night in his prayers.

Tom is the one to pull away this time. He unbuttons John’s coat and throws it over the nearest chair. He toes off his sneakers and tosses his own jacket over John’s. John feels like a child as he leans down to untie his shoes. Tom is watching him with a slight smile, and John thinks that maybe Tom feels the same nervousness he does.

“Do you…” John stumbles over his words. Everything he wants to say sounds foolish in his head. There’s no doubt it will sound even more idiotic out loud.

Tom is in front of him before he can begin to panic.

“You can ask me anything, John. You can say anything. We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do, okay?”

John nods, and admits with honesty, “I feel overwhelmed.”

Tom nods, and takes John’s hand. “I don’t have a sofa. Are you okay if we sit on my bed?”

John nods again and lets Tom lead him through a doorway on the other side of the kitchen. His bedroom is plain but tidy; except for the pile of wrinkled clothes on the floor next to what John assumes is a laundry basket.

“Sorry about the mess,” Tom says sheepishly. “They’re clean, I just… haven’t put them away.”

“S’fine,” John says, and lets himself be steered to the bed. _To Tom’s bed,_ his mind supplies, and he can feel the panic rise again.

“It’s not fine, John! You’re on the verge of a panic attack and I don’t know what to do.”

Tom sits on the bed next to him, mattress dipping so they’re sitting hip to hip, like they were on the train. In the quiet intimacy of Tom’s bedroom, the mood has shifted.

“That’s it. I don’t know what to do. What if I’m not good? What if I mess up? What if I hurt you?” What if-“ John babbles, words coming faster and faster now that the floodgates have been opened.

John stops speaking when Tom leans in and rests his head on John’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says.

“What?”

“I love you,” Tom says again. “Nothing you do in here is going to change that. Even if nothing happens.”

“I still want to. Do you… want me?”

Tom’s breath hitches and he makes a low sound, deep in his throat.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes. “Yes.”

“What if I mess up?”

“We’re not trying to win a maths prize, John,” he laughs. “It’s about finding out what makes the other person feel good.”

John doesn’t hesitate when he asks, “Show me?”

Tom makes another low sound, and guides John’s hand to the front of his jeans. “Well, I like it when my handsome, intelligent, kind, and generous partner touches me through my trousers.” He punctuates each word of praise with a peck to John’s lips, and before he can think about what he is doing, John’s hand is moving, caressing the stiff denim and tracing the shape of the bulge growing in Tom’s trousers.

“Like that,” Tom hums. John’s gaze is fixed on his hand, so Tom leans over to kiss John’s neck.

“Oh,” John says. “That feels… nice.”

“Good,” Tom says, and does it again.

* * *

It’s easier once they fall into a rhythm. Tom will tell him where to touch, where to kiss, how hard to bite, and John will obey. Soon, he’s confident enough to continue on his own, running hands up the back of Tom’s thighs; kissing him on the neck, just behind his ear; biting his nipples and rolling the buds around on his tongue. Tom is handsome every day, but like this, John thinks, Tom is _beautiful_.

He throws his head back against the pillows when John mouths along his chest for the first time, Tom’s hands threading through his hair and gently pulling him towards one nipple. When Tom gasps the words _use your teeth_ and John complies, his back arches and he moans. John has been chasing those moans ever since- his departure downwards on Tom’s body has elicited similar reactions. When he finally reaches Tom’s cock, swollen and dripping over his stomach, John doesn’t feel shame, like he thought he would. No, the sight of Tom’s arousal nearly sends him over the edge, and he knows that he can’t do anything but taste the man in front of him. John licks tentatively at the head and Tom’s hands fist in the sheets that cradle him. He slides his tongue up the slit to taste more, and Tom whimpers, one hand releasing the duvet to caress John’s cheek. The whole experience is making John dizzy, so he rests his cheek against Tom’s thigh and presses kisses against the side of Tom’s cock.

“John,” Tom gasps. John looks up from where he rests on Tom’s leg. Tom is flushed and sweaty, looking thoroughly debauched. “Lay on your back.”

Tom reciprocates the exploration of John’s body. His kisses and caresses are gentle- far gentler than what Tom had requested, not that John minds- but they serve their purpose in bringing John to full arousal.

“Can I ride you?” Tom asks suddenly from between John’s legs. It takes John a moment to come back to reality once he realizes Tom has stopped sucking his cock, and it takes another, longer moment to realize what Tom wants to do to him.

“You want to? Do you have… the things?” John is aware he’s in no state to answer a simple yes-or-no question, let alone make decisions.

“Things?”

“Things. The things. For… slipperiness.”

Tom laughs and crawls up the length of John’s body to kiss him on the nose.

“Yes, I have the slippery things.” Tom reaches over the side of the bed, giving John a splendid view of his arse, and pulls out a box filled with so-called ‘things.’

“I love you, Tom,” John says. He isn’t sure why Tom pulling out a box of lubricants and condoms reminds him to say it, but it does. “I didn’t say it before because I was panicking, but I do. I love you. And I want you. Right now, if you’re amenable.”

Tom laughs again and squirts a generous amount of lubricant onto John’s hand.

“Let me show you how to open me up, and then I’ll be more than amenable.”

* * *

If watching Tom writhe on his fingers gave John Irving a feeling of pure wonder, it was nothing compared to how it felt when Tom sank down on his cock for the first time. The look on Tom’s face alone was almost enough to make John spend right then and there, but when Tom started moving his hips, rocking back and forth, John was glad he held on. When Tom placed two hands on John’s chest and started raising himself up and slamming back down, impaling himself on the cock buried inside him, John had to close his eyes. The feeling consumed him; he had stopped existing and he was only the feeling of tight heat rubbing up and down against his aching prick. When he opened his eyes, he was in his body again; John Irving was lying on his back in Tom Hartnell’s bed, with Tom grinding his arse into the cradle of John’s hips and moaning loud enough that the dog in the flat next door had started barking.

“Do I feel good, John?” Tom gasped. “You’re being- _ah-_ awful quiet.”

John lifted his hands to Tom’s hips and bent his knees, giving Tom something to lean against as John began moving his hips, meeting Tom’s at the bottom and thrusting in deeper.

“You’re loud enough for the both of us, love,” John said, but once his mouth was open he couldn’t stop it- a moan fell from his mouth before he could catch himself.

“Touch me, John, please.” Tom’s mouth had fallen open and his movements were beginning to falter. John took a hand from Tom’s hip and brought it to his cock, full and bouncing with each movement. John tightened his fist like he had been taught Tom liked, and let the other man fuck himself between John’s hand on his cock and John’s cock in his arse.

“What does it feel like?” John breathed.

“Everything is you,” Tom breathed, as he came with a shuddering sigh over John’s hand. John followed, the image of Tom in the throes of pleasure because of _him_ fresh in his mind.

* * *

“So?” Tom stood in the doorway of the toilet wearing a pair of clean pyjama pants and a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

“So what?” John asked. His mouth was full of toothpaste and Tom’s clothes were too small on him, but he had never felt more at home anywhere in his life.

“How was it?” Tom was smiling, but John could sense the apprehension in his voice.

“ _Now_ you want me to treat it like a maths exam? How many points should I grade you out of? Twenty? One hundred?”

Tom shook his head and crossed the threshold of the doorway to stand behind John, hugging him from behind and kissing him on the cheek.

“The last part of the exam is the post-coital cuddle, so come to bed soon, yeah?”

John tried to say “yes,” but the toothpaste got in the way and dribbled down his chin.

“Sexy thing,” Tom commented, before kissing John on the toothpaste-covered mouth and leaving the small room.

Finish up in the toilet, John spared a look in the mirror. He looked different. He wondered for a brief moment if the sex had changed him. Tom called out to him from the bedroom, voice obscured by the barking of next door’s dog, which had started again and, according to Tom, would go on for half the night. Just as John was turning to join Tom in bed, he realized the difference he saw in the mirror. He was smiling.


End file.
